Northrend Lights
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: The veil between Azeroth and the Shadowlands had been torn open. Once again, Northrend would be a battleground. Once again, blood would stain the snow.


**Northrend Lights**

I've been here before.

Once. A lifetime ago. Before the day when Azeroth began to bleed. Before the sky once again rained fire. Before a portal opened to a different Draenor, before the mists parted to reveal a hidden land, and before even the earth was torn asunder, I was here. In Northrend. Among thousands sent to fight, to die, and to hope that they weren't resurrected in death. Like so many, I was here. Unlike thousands, I was able to return to warmer lands.

Northrend. The Roof of the World. The Crown of Azeroth A realm of ice, darkness, and despair, all overseen by death. Little grows here. Little lives here. Overlooking the shore from the deck of the ship, I can see sorcerers burning the ice-sheets that have spread out from the shore. No-one's meant to campaign during winter. There are a hundred reasons why in a normal world this would be unthinkable. But time is not on our side. Time is not on the world's side. For longer than some have been alive, the world has lurched from one disaster to the next. It has survived every one of those disasters, but only by the blood of millions. They said with the discovery of azerite that Azeroth was bleeding. On that day, I wondered if the planet had finally begun to comprehend what it was like to lay down your flesh and bone to defend a world that didn't even know you existed.

I'm not the only one standing here, looking at a shore I hoped to never return to. The _Steadfast _is a troopship, its sole purpose being to transport soldiers from point a to point b, and stay back where, at point b, they inevitably begin to die in all matter of horrible ways. Sailors are running to and fro – weighing anchor, pitching the sails, getting the longboats ready. Footmen like myself are just standing here, waiting for an order from a sergeant, or if we're lucky, some fancy knightly lord who gets better armour and more furs. None of us speak, and all of our eyes are on "point b." There's some small comfort to be known that we won't be storming the beaches of this forsaken wasteland. But small is still small – if we topple into the water, we're dead. If ice gives way, we're dead. If we make it to the shore without drowning or freezing, we still have to fight our way through the remnants of the Scourge that, since the death of the Lich King, have remained dangerous, if unguided. And after _that_, once we make it to the portal, once we pass through the miasma that has torn the sky asunder…well, we don't know. There's no precedent for this. Even Outland was still a world, albeit a shattered one. Also, warmer, or so I was told. I never fought there. But if it was anything like Draenor, well…

"Been a long time."

The silence had to be broken eventually, I assume. Without looking, I know that Erik has walked up beside me. I know it's him, because I recognise his voice, and his propensity to state the obvious.

"Getting flashbacks?" he asks.

I dare to look at the man. I'm further reminded that it's Erik because he's still got a patch covering his right eye, and a scar covering his left cheek. Also he isn't wearing his helmet, because according to him, it messes with his vision. Well, what's left of it.

"Saul?"

I yawn, my breath pouring out of my mouth as vapour for the world to see. "I'm trying not to."

"Uh-huh." He leans forward over the wooden barrier that separates us from a watery grave. "Well. Wish I could say it was just like last time, but, y'know…" He jabs a thumb upward. "_That_."

Of course. _That_. Trust Erik to come up with such an eloquent word to discover the phenomenon that's spreading over all of Azeroth. A phenomenon that I can't help but look at myself.

There's no real name for it. Oh yes, our wise and glorious leaders have informed the populace that it leads to the so-called Shadowlands, but there's no name for "that" itself. Some call it the Tear. Some the Miasma. Some the Veil. Maybe men with long beards and short dicks will find a name and record it in books meant only for fellow learned men (and women too, I guess), but for the rest of us, its name is irrelevant. It's an orange stain that's spreading across the sky, and one that originated from Northrend itself. From Stormwind, it appeared like a faint second sun. From Lordaeron, an orange cloud to the north. Here, at the shores of this frozen wasteland, it takes up the entire sky. And beyond it, flashes. Lightning. Glimpses of a world like, and unlike our own. During the day, it casts an orange glow over us. During the night, that remains just as true. And while there's little official word on what caused it, or what we can do, if anything, to reverse it, well, if rumours are for enlisted men, then we peons have heard a lot. Rumours of the Banshee Queen doing something even more destructive than starting another war. Rumours that begin with words like "Helm of Dominion" and "Lich King." Rumours that claim the former was destroyed, and that the latter lives, if such a word can be applied. Rumours that would have made no sense even months ago, as Tirion Fordring slew the Lich King himself, but then, I wasn't there. No-one was. Only a paladin and a motley group of heroes who've managed to be everywhere since. Swinging the final blow, after walking a path paved with the blood of lesser men whose names will never be remembered.

"Shame. I was hoping to see the Northrend Lights."

I look at Erik. "What?"

"The Northrend Lights."

I give him a blank stare.

"The _Northrend Lights_," he repeats – he gives me a withering look that even with only one eye, is enough to cause a flower to disintegrate. He gestures towards the sky. "Y'know. Those green lights up there."

"Hmm? Oh, you mean the _Northern _Lights."

"Northern?"

"Yes. Northern. That's what they're called."

"I was pretty sure it was called the Northrend Lights."

"Trust me Erik, it's the Northern Lights. It's cause by energy from the sun interacting with Azeroth's magnetic field and…" It trail off. I can tell that he's already started to lose interest. And, in fairness, this is pretty esoteric information, cobbled together from gnomish studies into Azeroth's composition, and the League of Explorers' scientific measurements. It's some small measure of comfort that even in this world of war, science and learning can still advance. But it's comfort drowned out by the reminder that it's winter, that the Northern Lights should be able to be seen, but thanks to the Tear, we can't. And we may never again.

More than once in my life, I've wondered if there's a breaking point to this world that we don't know about. How many times can Azeroth suffer invasion? How long until it heals from the Cataclysm, if at all? Perhaps with the azerite spikes, it's already reached that point, and we're fighting over a dying world. I look up at the sky again, but before long, I turn away. If I look at it too long, I start to get a headache. And scuttlebutt is that some have had far more dire reactions. Vomiting. Seizures. Visions of their own deaths. Almost par for the course really, but still…

Erik taps my shoulder. "Look," he says, pointing down the deck. "Old traditions die hard."

I follow his hand and I sigh. I know where this is going. To my shame, I might actually take part in it. Because when you're at the bottom of a very tall, very dirty pole, you'll take what victories you can in standing on the heads of others to climb it. Or, to put it less poetically, tormenting those still wet behind the ears is cathartic. Horrible, yes. But cathartic. And if they can't take it, then they've got no business swinging a sword or spear around and yelling "for the Alliance!"

It's Erik who takes the lead. He walks over to the boy who's sitting down, a quill in one hand and a parchment in the other. After some hesitation, I follow him. Erik's seen more wars than I have, and he's saved my life more times than I have fingers left (eight). But that doesn't mean he's a morally upstanding individual who was rewarded for his piety or anything.

"Writing a letter to mother?" Erik asks.

The boy looks up at him.

"Sister? Lover, perhaps?"

The boy looks at me and I frown. "How old are you?" I ask.

The boy takes a breath before answering. "Sixteen."

"Might have said fifteen, could have swallowed that."

"I…alright, fourteen."

I give him a look. He's either very brave, or very stupid.

"You here to fight the good fight?" Erik sneers. He taps his eyepatch. "Pick up a few scars."

"I don't know good sir. Perhaps you can ask the men who press ganged me."

Erik's sneer fades. I frown. The boy's accent has a faint hint of Kul'Tiran to it, and if that's the case, well, it's unfortunate, but not without precedent. Docks are the best place to abduct starry-eyed youths. Get them away from land quick enough, all they can do is fight and stay alive long enough to make it home. But at the end of the day, he's wearing our armour, our tabard, and fighting under our flag. The golden lion, looking out to a place where there's nothing for it to eat.

In this period of reflection, the boy's gone back to writing. Or at least trying to. He stares at the parchment, a quill in his hands.

"Can't think of what to say?" I ask.

He shrugs.

"Or is it that you can't write?"

He gives me a look, and I quickly realize which one of those possibilities is the truth. I feel sorry for him, but not so much – no point grieving for those who'll soon be dead. But still, I try and comfort him.

"Been awhile since I was last here," I say. "Me and the lads, we wrote notes as well."

"You did?" He sounds slightly interested.

"Hmm." I look at Erik, who's walked off to make someone else's life a misery. "Thing about fighting the undead, there's a strong chance you're going to die and then come back. You do that, you're either a piece of rotting meat, or a walking skeleton with no discernible features." He's turned pale, but I continue. "Yeah. We'd write notes, tuck them under our armour. If we were lucky, someone would take them back home after we were killed a second time."

"But…we're not fighting the Scourge? Are we?"

I nod towards the frozen shore. "We're at Northrend. One way or another, you can count on seeing walking dead men who want to kill you."

Have I done more harm than good? Maybe. I decide to not tell him that one of the most effective ways of dealing with the likes of zombies, skeletons and ghouls is to simply burn the bastards. Which means that any parting words they wrote in their last hours is burnt along with them. So, in a small act of recompense, I give him a pat on his armoured shoulder. "Keep at it kid. Least in the time you've got left. And hey, if you survive this, if that big hole in the sky is fixed, you'll be able to see the Northern Lights."

He stares at me.

"Northern Lights," I say.

"I…pardon?"

"Cripes, doesn't anyone know anything? Those green lights that appear in the sky around here." I point up towards the orange miasma. "Y'know. That stuff we can no longer see because of that tear."

"Hmm? Oh, you mean the _Northrend _Lights," the boy says. "Oh yes. I suppose we might."

I stare at him. My mouth opens to speak, or to curse, but I keep it at bay. Because the sergeant's calling to us, and I know what's next. Longboats. An icy shore. Saltwater, hypothermia, death and disease. And that's before we even make it to Icecrown.

Maybe if I survive this, I'll be able to look up a book and find what those lights in the sky are really called. But then again, it won't matter. Me, Erik, the boy…

History shown that at least one of us will be dead by the time this is all over.


End file.
